Lying Alone
by sarapals with past50
Summary: A story of Sara and Grissom beginning in Paris. Romance (GSR) and love, angst and misunderstanding until that morning when Sara arrived at the dock and the sail into the sunset! References to CSI episodes.
1. Chapter 1

_**A new story exploring the lives of Sara and Grissom from Paris to the boat ride into the sunset! Enjoy!**_

**Lying Alone **

**Chapter 1**

Gil Grissom sat at his desk at four in the afternoon wearing an overcoat, a scarf, and gloves. A stack of papers and three books filled his hands as he tried to decide which ones he wanted to place in his satchel. Outside, a winter dusk, where a gray sky softened and faded lines and corners of nearby buildings. People in coats, mostly in dark colors, occasionally a bright colored one, crowded sidewalks showing a dusting of snow. It had been no more than a sprinkle, like sugar falling from a cookie that filled cracks and crevices and stuck to windows for a few seconds before disappearing. The local weather forecast predicted more to come. Possibly a white Christmas.

Decision made, the papers went into his bag and he stood. This was the time of day loved by everyone in Paris. Gold light spilled from windows onto streets; people laughed at nothing, made plans for today, tomorrow, next week. Crowds moved along the avenues looking for places to eat or to drink or to simply walk along aged sidewalks. Night never followed day here—in between was evening, from fading light to as long as one wanted it to last—sometimes until dawn, he thought.

Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he glanced at the wall clock. From faint sounds from other offices, few people remained in the building. He'd turned down several invitations to meet for drinks, one for dinner. The small apartment he rented was an easy walk—even on a cold day—and in need of cleaning, straightening up, hanging clothes. And food—he needed food—fresh, not the stale bread he'd left on the table this morning.

He almost took the long way to extend his walk into one of the neighborhoods of narrow, twisting streets but he would also have to backtrack to his favorite _boulangerie. _He strolled with the crowds, eavesdropping on bits of conversation, until he turned the corner where the aroma of freshly baked bread met his nose. His daily bread was in the center of the block.

As his nose inhaled the aroma, his eyes closed for a few seconds. When he left, he would miss the smells of Paris as much as he would miss any part of the city. When he opened his eyes, he blinked several times, unable to comprehend what—who he saw standing in the doorway of the bakery.

She's early—two days early, he thought, as he stumbled then hastened his steps. A grin spread across his face. Her dark coat and the blue wool hat almost served as a disguise but the bright multi-colored scarf and the shopping bag had been hanging on the back of the door when he'd left the apartment this morning.

"Sara!" He thought he'd said her name softly but her head turned and her smile mirrored his.

Her arms spread; the loaf of bread held over her head as she took several long strides to get to him. When they hugged, he no longer smelled bread but the fragrance of her soap, shampoo, and lotion—the slight citrus scent she'd used for a decade. When she pulled back, her eyes shone with what he knew was happiness and love.

The string shopping bag held asparagus, cheese, eggs, grapes, apples, a bottle of water and a bottle of wine. Questions and answers spilled over and tangled in their conversation as they made their way to the apartment; a gray stone building with four floors and a multitude of stairways and steps.

She was early; a change in airline schedules got her on an earlier flight. Laughing, she said she'd left three messages on the phone he'd left on the kitchen counter.

He chuckled, saying, "I haven't had it on in two or three days."

The apartment was small, owned by a faculty member on sabbatical, with a kitchen at its front door, bead-board and old-fashioned wall paper covered the walls of the dining area and the living room where floor-to-ceiling windows opened to a diminutive balcony and furniture consisted of well-worn chairs, a small sofa, and lamps that were fifty years old. The bedroom was the jewel—skylights over a wide bed, one wall with build-in cabinets, compartments, and shelves for clothing and books, and an updated bathroom with a small clothes washer.

Somehow, they managed to make it to the bedroom; on the way, Grissom noticed the clean kitchen sink, the empty trash can, and his neatly stacked papers and books.

He got his shirt off, his pants thrown at a chair before he turned to find Sara looking sultry and sexy wearing a gold necklace he'd given her and the cutest black panties he'd seen in twelve weeks. They met somewhere on the bed; clumsy and shameless, laughing, dizzy with desire. Hands and mouths working, in too much of a hurry to be graceful or clever and too excited to care.

It was like their first time together—and their last time. He wanted her too much to be seductive—her fault, he thought—her knees spread or one foot pointing to the ceiling, with so many angles and clefts, curves and shadows, freckles scattered over her nose and her shoulders. Dark honey-colored eyes that flashed with flames, pale, blushing skin and, inside, the rosy pink he remembered. She crawled around the bed; he moved with her to find a position that made them breathe hard and fast. And then they did it again.

He managed to hold on, falling back now and then, but not her. From time to time, she came for both of them until, very late, she insisted—whispering, coaxing—and then he saw stars.

Six days. They had six days together. Dark, cold winter days with heavy clouds that threatened rain or snow. After staying in the apartment—mostly in bed—for twenty-four hours, they had to dress and find food.

They walked like lovers, shoulders touching, talking softly. Sara put her hand in the pocket of his coat, pressed against his thigh. He thought it was the most intimate contact he'd had experienced in public.

Along a narrow street, walking with arms wrapped around each other, they stopped to look in the window of a _patisserie _at the trays of colorful tarts, layer cakes and buttery cookies. Grissom went in, bought two red jam tarts, and they ate them as they walked back to the apartment.

He was amazed how hours could pass and they did not have to talk. She made tea; he pulled her onto his lap. Within minutes, they were kissing; the tea went cold as they moved to the bed. He went to shower afterwards; Sara was asleep but then she was climbing into the shower with him and the kissing began again followed by long, lazy lovemaking.

"It's snowing," Sara whispered, pointing to the skylight. "Let's go for a walk."

They walked through a blizzard. Sara's shoulder was firmly against his; occasionally her head dropped to touch his as she held his arm with both of hers. He was happy and didn't really care if they froze to death, became a set of ice statues, both smiling.

Finally, he said, "I'll return in twelve weeks—it won't be long."

During quiet hours, they had talked about his work, her work, their mothers, the dog, the future. The future—it lay before them as an unwritten book; an abrupt, unexpected end to a wanted pregnancy had been the quiet motive for Sara's return to Las Vegas. He would finish his contract in Paris and join her in three months.

His arm tightened around Sara, saying, "I'll be home soon."

Sara nodded as if she understood his thoughts.

Snow swirled around them, made little drifts in doorways of closed shops. Once he pulled her into a darkened entrance and kissed her so hard and long, he remembered being a teenager.

Afterwards, walking into the wind, holding each other close, Sara told him a story of Christmas as a young girl. Her parents had forgotten the holiday—or, more likely, spent money on alcohol and drugs, forgetting the expectations of a small child. On Christmas morning, there were no gifts for anyone, just empty bottles scattered across the floor.

"Around noon, the woman who lived next door brought over some food. She took one look at the place and invited me to her house." Sara wiped a hand across her face before she continued. "She put me in front of the television with a plate of cookies and a few minutes later came in with this little stack of gifts. She said Santa had left them at the wrong address—I knew there was no Santa but I played along and opened the presents."

Grissom held her tightly, asking, "What were the gifts?"

"A book—a biography of Amelia Earhart, a little bottle of cologne—I think it was a small sample size, a pair of socks, and a box of chocolate covered cherries. I could not figure out where she got the gifts—later, I realized she'd probably wrapped up some things she had at her house."

"Do you remember her name?" He knew she remembered.

"Della—we moved a few months later and I never saw her again."

"Sara…" He couldn't think of what to say. In the years they had known each other, she had not told him many stories of her life as a child.

Sensing his uncertainty, she leaned against him and placed cold lips against his cheek. She said, "I love you, Gilbert."

Their last night together, he could not sleep. He lay in the darkness and listened to Sara's soft breathing. They'd had a quiet Christmas celebration; at mid-day, they had walked along the muddy river, marveled at the snow-shrouded churches, and made quiet comments about the well-dressed Parisians. Now, he thought about each part of his life, how some of it had flowed together and some of it, as this sojourn to Paris seemed to be, was an oddity, a twist of fate.

When he shifted his position, Sara woke, made a little noise, then flowed across the bed and pressed tight against him.

"I don't want to leave you," she said into his ear.

He smoothed her hair, kissed her forehead. "I'll be home soon," he said.

He insisted on going to the airport with her and before she entered security, he took her into his arms and held her. "Only twelve weeks," spoken as if it were hours. "I love you. Be safe."

Standing in line, she waved, watched him until a turn put her behind a wall and he could no longer see her; her face was radiant, strong, smiling, wanting him to know he did not have to worry about her. His hand remained in the air for a long moment after she was gone.

_A/N: Let us know what you think! We appreciate hearing from fans and readers who still love Sara and Grissom and GSR! _


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: A new chapter- thank you to those who read and review! Please let us hear your thoughts! Love live GSR!_

**Lying Alone**

**Chapter 2 **

Sara knew her husband was in the house—or had recently walked through it—even if his shoes had not been sitting in the middle of the living room, even if the mail wasn't scattered from front door to kitchen counter. Even without the shoes and the strewn envelopes and magazines, she could sense his presence. When the dog did not meet her, she headed to the back yard.

She smiled.

A back yard. Their first back yard. Their first house. She smiled again when she could see the back yard. When she had found the house, vines and shrubs had been left to riot, but they—she and Gil—had worked to restrain and tame, cut back and brought things to order. Not a clipped, sterile garden but a place for Hank to wander and rest in shade, for bee hives and nectar flowers, a place for enjoyment, a place for the future. For Sara, she felt a new kind of ownership in the physical work she'd done in the yard and in the house.

Her eyes moved back to the porch that extended across the back of the house. Her husband considered the covered terrace a sanctuary for his insects, host plants and special feeders. She'd learned to keep her hands from swatting at bees and hummingbirds that zipped around the yard and porch.

Gil Grissom sat in the porch swing, one foot slowly tapping the floor enough to move the swing back and forth; their sleeping dog was curled in another chair, and neither knew she was anywhere near.

She had found the house while he was still in Paris and within a month of his return, the condo had sold and they'd moved into the house. For both of them, the cleaning up and painting, furnishing and decorating of the house and yard had served as an unexpected distraction. While Grissom waited for his grant to work its way along the layers of bureaucracy, while they went through a battery of fertility testing that had, so far, resulted in no positive results, they had shopped for appropriate furniture, painted walls, refinished floors, and restructured the yard. Today, Sara knew Grissom had spent most of the morning working on two on-going projects: his bee hives and a solar-powered, re-circulating water pool in the back yard.

The Gil Grissom she'd met all those years ago had been a man of precise habits, a man of routines and standards. The condo they had shared had been home, but it had been his house and his hobbies and his furniture before she had moved in. The house was truly theirs; she had loved it and passionately wanted it. Yet it was Grissom who had grown to love the place in a satisfying way, to be comfortable with everything about the house and its surroundings.

She smiled; he looked younger—a decade younger than when he had arrived in Costa Rica. His body was relaxed; his arms were tanned and his hair, longer than usual, had curls that took years away from his face even as the color was changing to silver-white.

Sliding the door open, man and dog looked up, surprise registering on both faces. Papers fluttered like confetti as her husband stood.

"You're home! Why didn't you call?" He took her into his arms for a hug.

Resting her head on his shoulder, Sara said, "We finished up—I didn't even return to the lab—just came home."

She told him of the dead body found after a fire—a woman who had been killed by her lover and left in the house for two days before burning the house.

"Enough of that," she said. "Let me get a shower and join you." She kissed Grissom's cheek and added, "What's in the mail that had your attention so intensely?"

"Later," Grissom said. "Shower and I'll fix tea for us." Kissing her lips before she turned away, he patted her butt as she stepped into the house.

But the letter was forgotten; the tea postponed. She could have been in and out of the shower in ten minutes, but by the time she'd turned on the water, Grissom was standing behind her, pulling her jacket off her shoulders, tugging her shirt over her head. Relaxing in his care, she watched his face, sensing there was a multitude of things he wanted to tell her.

Mist and steam obscured her husband's face for a few seconds as she entered the shower; a moment later, he joined her. His movements were deliberately slow as he soaped and rinsed her body until she was pink and glowing. Finally, taking his soap, she did the same to him, unable to resist a smile as she soothed a hand across his wet back before kissing the back of his neck.

As he dried her, saying softly, "Lift your arms," she could not keep a smile from her face. This extraordinary man loved her—she would never be certain how she had won his well-guarded heart.

Then his voice, tenderly near her ear, whispered, "Bed, dear."

"You, too—for a while. I'll sleep better." Her words were deep, husky, sexy, inviting.

Her response made his laugh. For months, they'd had sex in a very methodical, scheduled way based on timing of fertility drugs but they had called a halt—a rest stop—to decide what they would do next.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he kissed her, gently yet in a hungering way that made Sara want to touch every inch of his body. In a quick pounce, they were across the floor and tumbling, rolling into bed, laughing between kisses.

Sara knew the side effects of the drugs had taken a toll on her body; her breasts no longer felt tender. Her belly had lost some of its distended swell. And—they were free to have as much sex as they wanted.

Grissom lowered his mouth to her shoulder, murmuring "Not too quickly—we don't have to rush."

Another giggle broke out as Sara wrapped her legs around his thighs. She said, "If you don't do this, I swear, I might have to break something—of yours!"

Easing her onto her back, he laughed. "We've got plenty of time."

Sara nodded, aware of the difference in their excitement. He was able to restrain his intense passion, whereas she was always overwhelmed, impatient for the ecstasy that he would give her.

One of his palms slipped along her spine while his lips feasted on her chin, her throat, back to her mouth. His hands seemed to be everywhere, cradling and caressing, stroking and fondling her so her entire body tingled in a deep, pleasurable ache.

When she touched him, he drew away, held her hands, slowing her touches even as his kisses made her groan as his tongue moved down to her breasts, touching her nipples with fleeting strokes of his tongue. She was flushed, trembling, breathing in gulps as his fingers explored the tangle of curls between her thighs. When he parted the peak of her sex, gently, teasing with gossamer-light caresses, her hips jerked hard against his hand.

Layer upon layer, sensation upon sensation, her heartbeat launched into an urgent beat; parting her legs, pushing her knees up, she found what she desired and placed his hard penis into her intimate flesh. He was so hard, above her, inside her that nothing could stop the thick, heavy slide nudging into her. A pleasured rhythm developed, stroking, pleasing, deliberately pushing both to the edge of orgasm until she shuddered in pleasure. A moment passed; she was aware of his climax—her body responded with a wave of contractions as a deep growl came from his chest.

Feeling drained and nearly unconscious, Sara shifted and pulled her husband into her arms as he attempted to slide beside her.

"Will you stay," she asked.

His contented murmur was enough to cause a deep sigh as she fell asleep.

Sara stayed in bed the rest of the afternoon and into the night, waking just enough to find herself enveloped in the warmth of Grissom's body and the soft layers of bed coverings. She knew her husband woke and let Hank into the room because she felt the heat from the animal around her feet.

Much later when she woke again, a thin pale color of early morning light had managed to edge around the window and the bed had been vacated by man and dog. Bleary from undisturbed sleep, she tunneled beneath covers, pulled Grissom's pillow with her and inhaled the slight scent left by his body. Love, she thought, did strange things.

It was not in her nature to lie alone in bed and after listening for sounds—hearing none—she stretched and managed to put her feet on the floor. After finding a note on a tea cup—a one word message of 'walk' which they reused and kept stuck to the refrigerator when not needed—she made tea and toast and went to the terrace.

The mail from the previous day had been neatly stacked on the table where she placed her tea cup. Underneath, open, unfolded was an off-white piece of paper with a letterhead showing a tiny blue butterfly; she recognized it immediately—the group she'd gone to Costa Rica with had the same logo. With two fingers, she carefully pulled the letter free and began to read; a smile spread across her face.

She looked up to find Grissom standing near her. Hank still wore the leash. The letter was in her hand and she realized what he had been reluctant to tell her last night.

"We'll go," she said, softly. "We'll go!"

An offer to work for four weeks chasing butterflies in far away Indonesia; an area neither could place on a map until they found the globe and then they needed an atlas to find the specific mountain island of rare butterflies.

"What about work?" He asked.

Sara chuckled, saying, "I'm temporary, interim until another person is hired—you know how Ecklie is—if he has a warm body, he'll never look for a real replacement." And maybe, she thought, this is what they needed. A place entirely foreign and strange, working with delicate insects until exhausted. And, at the end of a month, they would receive extremely generous compensation for their work.

Grissom said, "We could use the money—for—for—you know."

Sara nodded. It was exceedingly difficult for either of them to put into words the failure they suffered with infertility. And the expense of the next step seemed like a concrete wall. She smiled and said, "Butterflies—it'll be fun."

…She had not expected to like the place; thinking everything would feel alien, strange and perplexing but the island city of Makassar was one of the largest cities in Indonesia, historic and modern. They were there only two nights before traveling to a mountain village where the research center was located in a red building with a long residential wing for visitors.

Miquel Cruz, the research director they had worked with in Costa Rica, met them as old friends, delighted to have two experienced researchers on his team. He showed them to their accommodations, a bedroom and sitting room-office and a private bathroom. High, wide windows covered with screens and rain shutters, ceiling fans moved cool yet humid air, wicker chairs, several tables, and a bed covered in brilliant white sheets; this would be their temporary home for a month.

"We eat together," he explained. "Local women take care of cooking—Sara, you'll enjoy the vegetarian dishes—and cleaning, laundry."

The next morning, they headed out on a narrow path climbing higher with the simple supplies and equipment, a jug of water, and a small box containing lunch. They circled rice fields before getting to the jungle area and the mountain altitude where butterflies seemed to be hanging from every leaf. They saw many butterflies before one of the other researchers gave a cheery whooping call.

"Found one—_Papilio blumei_!"

The group of six gathered around to observe and admire the prize—wings of black velvet with a stripe of peacock blue—it looks like a jewel to Sara.

"A female," someone says. "A male will be near."

So they waited and watched; it was Miguel who pointed to a flicker of blue high above their heads.

The male was unlike the beautiful female. It glittered in the light, not one color but many, changing colors as it moved, depending on the light. Then, quickly, a diaphanous net shot out and captured the male. Everyone celebrated for ten seconds before someone else removed it from the net and placed a tiny lime green sticker, no larger than a pencil eraser, on the lower wing.

As the butterfly was held, Sara realized some of the color had disappeared. She said, "Like trying to hold a rainbow, isn't it?"

A couple of people looked at her as she explained, "The beauty is in the sky—the colors disappear when it is caught."

A minute later, after tagging and measuring, the butterfly was set free, fluttering into the canopy of the jungle. Grissom marked the grid map, smiling at her words.

This was the first of many—brightly colored butterflies, gold and black, green and blue, all the colors of the rainbow represented in delicate wings. Every day, the group of six waded into a jungle that made Sara think of a natural Christmas tree, dripping with droplets of water that twinkled like white fairy lights and butterflies hung like precious ornaments.

The month passed as a reprieve of the happiest kind, providing a temporary relief from her work, from Grissom's daily routine, a postponement of their hopes. Days drifted by, lazily, humid, where no one seemed to rush or have a life broken by tragedy. Each day the sunlight lingered near the equator before dropping over the edge of the earth giving a quick twilight that went from gold to red to purple in minutes.

On several occasions, they returned to Makassar to wander streets made exotic with people and animals, beggars and babies, went into temples and walked around mosques, heard enchanting bells and chanting voices, and ate food that was sweet, spicy, and smoked. She would remember this place for years as a time where they were happy, content.

Sara and Grissom had packed to leave; she had tears in her eyes all the way to the airport. She had not expected the beauty, the sense of fragility of the place, the national park where they had lived, loved at night and tagged butterflies during the day. Grissom, sensing her feelings, having unacknowledged his own thoughts, held her hand until she fell asleep on the plane.

_A/N: Thank you again! Please take a few seconds to send us a word or two or three of encouragement! Love all of you for supporting GSR! _


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Thanks for reading and for your comments and reviews! Inspiration! Enjoy Chapter 3...**_

**Lying Alone**

**Chapter 3 **

Gil Grissom stood on the bridge wing of a gray-hulled research ship and looked up at the azure sky. His eyes traveled to the far-distant purple mountains at the edge of the lake. Drawing in a deep breath of cool, crisp air, he tried to absorb all of his surroundings with his senses, finding it hard to believe he was in this remote place.

Looking down at the world's deepest lake, he, even after three weeks on the ship, found the clarity of the blue water to be remarkable. A dime dropped into one hundred feet of water could be clearly identified. Called the "Blue Pearl of Siberia", the four hundred mile lake curved south to north in lower Siberia just above the border with Mongolia. Fed by cold streams, Lake Baikal was considered to be the oldest and the largest freshwater lake on earth—containing more water than all of the Great Lakes.

A tiny crustacean in the lake devoured algae and plankton to keep the water clear. This crustacean_, Epischura baikalensis,_ was the reason he was in Siberia with a joint American-Russian team. Not his research, but a very well-funded program with funds to generously pay scientists who would spend six to twelve weeks in Siberia, remote, cut off from most of the world; he'd taken the offer.

The researchers were studying the crustacean's ability to clean pollutants; the lake's existence was a source of great national pride and research was carefully scrutinized by the current government. Already, the pristine lake had its own environmental movement and Greenpeace had a small rubber boat armada which had checked out their presence in the first week on the lake. To find the genetic map that enabled the small shrimp-like organism to clean algae from water would be a revolutionary scientific advancement as well as a financial gold mine.

While the area was not crowded by any measure, Grissom had been surprised at the world-wide interest in the lake. Microbiologists, geophysicists, and environmental scientists migrated from around the world to study the lake and its waters. The ship carried forty-five researchers and crew, all studying different features on the lake. They had encountered three other research vessels with similar purposes.

He'd be on the lake for another four weeks after spending his first week in Moscow and, for him, days seemed to be passing in a blink of an eye. Turning as he heard footsteps, one of the crew members approached him with a package.

"Mail boat came by earlier today—brought you a package!" Jeff Bone was a co-captain of the ship as well as a specialized researcher and his voice still carried the slight accent of his Tennessee birthplace. When Grissom had shown a curious interest in the functions of the ship, Jeff had become an instructor, teaching about the navigation instruments and on several occasions, letting Grissom operate an expensive sonar-buoy and deploy small sensor pods.

Grissom took the package, turning it over several times before he tore it open. Mailed a few days after he left Vegas and recognizing the handwriting on the address label, he grinned.

"Must be something good," Jeff said.

Nodding, Grissom pulled out a jar of vitamins and a book. Stuck inside the book was a note: _Your favorite book and vitamins to keep you healthy. Love you, Sara _

Jeff laughed, saying, "An old book and vitamins? Not very romantic of Mrs. G."

"It's my favorite book," Grissom said as he held up _Moby Dick_, "and she knows it!"

Most days Grissom worked outside collecting crustaceans at varying levels from lake bed to a few feet below the water's surface. It was solitary and monotonous, repetitive yet fascinating because the process was far removed from what he'd done for decades—and he was surprised at how much he enjoyed the work the other scientists avoided if someone else volunteered. Sometimes, he worked in the lab, equipped with computers, microscopes, refrigerators, and an array of high tech equipment that reminded him of the Vegas crime lab.

The lab computers were also the only way to communicate with the rest of the world. Twice a day, a satellite picked up messages and sent them around the world to far-away addresses. Occasionally, each team member was given a time to send a video message to families; Grissom had talked to his wife two times in three weeks. Between Sara's work schedule and time changes, they had missed each other for real-time face-to-face chats but he sent her a message every two to three days.

After dinner of fish and potatoes—the basic menu for two meals a day—Grissom settled into his bunk, holding Sara's note between his fingers. He missed her every day, especially at night, lying alone in bed, but this trip would put their finances in good shape for what they both wanted. He sighed as he held the note to his nose, seeking a fragrance he knew had long dissipated. His thoughts turned to Sara, always positive, always smiling even as she had given injections to herself for fertility treatments; even as they—she—had suffered disappointment after disappointment. Three times their hopes had soared and three times, loss, an intimate, private mourning for what wasn't.

In this time between wakefulness and sleep, he could admit to no one but himself that he blamed his own actions. They should have married when Sara was younger, when he was in denial of his future. And now, finally, he did have a vision for their future; one black morning, he had woken from a deep sleep, a dream so vivid, he remembered it with an unusual clearness. He had dreamed of three little children running across a grassy slope. Bright faces, full of laughter, healthy bodies, shouting and vigorous as they ran toward their mother—Sara—and he knew they were his children.

Tucking the note under his pillow, he knew he could never talk of his dream to anyone. For some reason, he felt that if he spoke of it, it would bring bad luck. He and Sara would have their children, as in the dream, two boys and a girl. His eyelids closed as a hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

The steady tap-tap-tap woke Grissom; following a few seconds of confusion, he realized someone was knocking on the door to his cabin. Pushing off the narrow bed, he reached over and opened the door to find Jeff and another man named Ted standing in the hall. Both were dressed in jackets and warm caps.

Jeff waved, saying, "Come with us," in a whisper.

Grissom grabbed his clothes, dressed in seconds, and got his jacket out of the locker, only minutes behind the other two men. Once on the open deck, Jeff pointed to one of the inflatable boats.

"One of the Greenpeace boats called for help—it appears there is an unknown boat just south of us—probably poachers."

Ted had already uncovered the inflatable and the two men helped position the boat so it slid into the water with a quiet splash. Quickly, the three men jumped into the Zodiac with one grabbing three lifejackets and passing them to the others.

Minutes later, they were away from the ship as the motor hanging on the rear came to life, not with a roar but with a quiet, strong putter.

Finally, Grissom asked, "What are we going to do?"

Jeff chuckled. He said, "We're going out to do a bit of monkey-wrenching—did you ever read Edward Abbey's book? Greenpeace is tied up north of us—got all their boats in town on purpose while we go take photos—and might be able to do something else."

"What are the poachers after?" Grissom asked, more concerned about the "something else" than his voice suggested.

"Sturgeon," Jeff said. "These guys are locals—well, pretending to be local fishermen—come out under darkness from one place and show up a few days later at another port. And somewhere between the two places, another boat takes the sturgeon."

Grissom asked no more questions, having no idea why he had been chosen for this night trip. He wasn't in the lab every day but he was in the dining hall with everyone and not once had he heard any mention of 'monkey-wrenching' or any action that would indicate an Earth First kind of influence from the scientists. He kept a firm hold on the rope, seeing only the white foam kicked up by the small boat. The lights on the ship appeared as pinpoints on the horizon when the boat's motor throttled into a lower, softer gear; Grissom realized Ted held a small GPS in his hand.

"There," Jeff said, pointing ahead of them. "Look at the horizon and you'll see an odd black void." He handed Grissom a small camera. "Take photos with this one. I've got a small video camera."

With no more noise than a paddle would make, Ted maneuvered the small craft around an old, high-deck fishing boat that looked like it should have been scuttled years ago. Several layers of paint peeled from its wood. A few lights glittered at the stern and one light blinked on a tall mast. The faint lights provided no more than a twenty-foot pool of light around the craft. Otherwise, the boat appeared to be abandoned.

Grissom took his cue from Jeff and pressed the shutter on the small camera, obviously set to take low-light photographs. Ted circled the boat twice before cutting the motor to idle.

"There's a net out here—several buoys—looks like their catch is still overboard," Ted whispered. He eased the inflatable near a six-foot long floating barrel.

Jeff and Grissom touched the buoy and Jeff said, "It looks like a large wire mesh holding tank." Suddenly, he jerked his hand away and then softly laughed. "That fish is six feet long!"

From somewhere a pair of wire cutters appeared, passed to Grissom—and he knew what to do. Later, while Ted and Jeff laughed, he admitted he had not given a thought to cutting a hole in the cage as the large sturgeon bumped against his fingers. While doing it, he heard the gentle lap of waves against the sides of the inflatable and the sudden whoosh made as the large fish charged through the hole he'd cut. As Grissom had cut the wire, Jeff had untied the buoy and in seconds, the sturgeon swam away and cage disappeared deep into the lake; the fishing boat was still quiet, floating a few feet away.

Quietly, Ted moved the inflatable to another buoy where they quickly did the same procedure. After three stops, three times of cutting wire cages and freeing fish that were nearly as long as their boat, Grissom felt the Zodiac increased speed as it turned away from the fishing vessel. Glancing back, the larger boat appeared to be exactly as they had found it.

When they were almost to the research ship, Grissom asked, "What happens next?"

Jeff chuckled, saying, "We get back on board and sleep! I'll send the photos and video to Greenpeace and they'll take it to the right official." The man grinned and clapped Grissom's shoulder, saying, "Man, you are a natural for this!"

Hours later, after a restless sleep, Grissom made his way to the dining hall where food and coffee were available twenty hours a day. He found the place deserted which worried him; someone was always eating or drinking. After eating a pastry, he headed to the open deck—and a few seconds later, found most of the scientists and crew.

The horizon was dotted with at least a dozen vessels of all sizes. Grissom recognized three Greenpeace Zodiacs among them. Finding Ted, he asked, "What's happening?"

The man who had guided the inflatable into the night turned to face him, saying, "Something big happening—looks like poachers have been caught. The radio says they found four sturgeons in cages—big operation from the sound of it. You know, these giant sturgeons are protected—definitely a no catch fish. And they caught the crew." His face remained impassive, revealing nothing.

For several days, Grissom felt like he was in a parallel world; neither Jeff nor Ted mentioned the trip to the fishing boat. Others kept the event in conversations at the dining tables because there it was the biggest news of the season. At times, he thought it had been a vivid dream but Jeff would walk by, greet him with a good-humored hand slap on the shoulder and announce to no one—or anyone—what a natural he was for all of this.

Two weeks passed and everyone continued with their research, collecting samples, sending data to far-away labs, routine work in this clean-washed part of the world; twice Grissom missed face-time with Sara and left video messages for her. He'd be home soon, he told her.

Under a cloudless sky, Grissom enjoyed his last week of work. Late on his last night, he had packed his two bags when a soft tap on his open door brought Jeff Bone into the small cabin.

Closing the door, Jeff extended his hand, saying, "Thanks for the help—Ted and I have done these things for years, and," he chuckled, "it took a long discussion to include you that night."

Grissom nodded, smiling, as he said, "I was happy to help."

"There's so much to do—the authorities can only do so much." He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a small yellow card. "I don't know what your plans are but here's a number—should you—you know—this woman is in the States. She knows others who do this sort of thing under cover of legitimate research."

Grissom took the card and slipped it into his pocket. He said some appropriate words and a short while later, Jeff left the cabin. Grissom removed the card and ran a finger across the number. He had no intention of using the number; he and Sara had other plans. Safe, traditional plans of having a family, laughing, healthy children—and he smiled. Sara would be waiting; he'd see her in a few days with enough in their bank account to fund another round of treatments.

As clear as the sky outside, Grissom could see his wife in startling clarity, like a Vermeer painting, every detail of her face defined from her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail to her sparkling eyes with tiny flames of gold. Moving his bags, he reclined on the bed and within minutes, he slept.

_A/N: Read, review, and next chapter soon! Thank you!_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Thank you for reading! We appreciate all of you-and especially those who review!**_

**Lying Alone**

**Chapter 4 **

As a young girl, Sara Sidle had been a child who absorbed information, facts, details. Nothing was too trivial to interest her; she had mapped out a tide pool one day and changed her drawing as tide and wind changed the real thing. For the past year, her life had been the same—mapped, plotted, and planned between cycles and doctor's appointments, injections and scans—and she'd been bitchy to everyone around her. Mostly bitchy; occasionally she'd been so overwhelmed by weird outbursts of emotions that ranged from fury to passion; tears appeared in her eyes for no reason. And at times, when hormones were raging and her abdomen felt as if it would explode, she'd had amorous desires that nearly drove her mad—and into a cold shower.

Today, she'd put all that behind her as she followed in the footsteps of the man she loved with the same passion she'd had as a curious child. She loved him so much that it frightened her in quiet moments. She had learned him as she had learned the tides and currents as a child. She studied him—the curls of hair around his temples, the silver-gold touches in his lashes. And his eyes—blue as the sky, as forget-me-nots in the sun, set into a face of gentle kindness. She knew he had managed a guise, a mask of mechanical control for the outside world but from their first meeting, she had known something more was behind the disguised front.

She had seen what he was as he listened, observed, and how most people stood back from him. At one time, she had thought he would never love—destined to a life as a loner or pushed into a relationship with someone who hoped to change him. But she had known, immediately, that he was for her.

Her husband's voice got her attention and she quickened her pace on the trail. Smiling as his body was silhouetted in the morning sun against a blue sky, she stretched her arm out to him.

The Mojave Desert had some of the most hostile temperatures in the world; blistering heat and plummeting cold at times. Spring temperatures, however, made it a favorite destination for hikers and, today, they were hikers.

Gil Grissom took her hand as she reached his side. He said, "It's beautiful here."

The pink and red rocky outcroppings framed against the morning sky made its own kind of beauty. One Joshua tree, contorted by wind, stood as a lone guard post near the trail.

Easily, they embraced. "I needed this," Sara said.

Grissom hugged her, kissed her cheek before she turned her face to his and they kissed again. He had been away for weeks, longer than they had expected, but the time apart had faded once he had returned.

They had been lovers for years before marrying and Grissom had reasoned his life would be a quiet, sedate one of research or teaching after retiring as lab director. But Sara had seen something else, had seen the wanderlust in his eyes. Within months of his return to Vegas, she had encouraged him to take on field research. A few times, they had been together, but most offers were for one person, one opening, one entomologist. And the money he'd been paid had been a gift, a needed contribution for funding their efforts to have a family.

As he held her close, Sara remembered her words of encouragement. Time apart would make their love stronger, she told him; he had agreed though she doubted he meant it. Yet, she knew—their marriage was strong—she—they were happy.

Shaking off the backpack, Grissom handed Sara a bottle of water.

"Drink up," he said. "It's a long walk back."

Sara laughed. "It's downhill!"

After a minute of shuffling around, Grissom managed to clean a place for both to sit overlooking the path they had climbed. In the distance, the car appeared to be a speck in a postage-stamp size square. Framed against a clear blue sky, the land teemed with its own brand of beauty of stunning rocks formations and rich wildlife of hawks, coyotes, owls, and insects; for Sara, the scenic environs of the desert provided a calming change while Grissom saw it as a place to explore.

They were perched like eagles on a rocky ledge in the shadow of a large boulder. Grissom dug into the backpack and found two energy bars and two apples. Sara took the bar first, peeling back the wrapper as she relaxed against the warm stone.

She said, "At one time, I didn't think I'd ever return here."

Grissom made a quiet agreeable sound before saying, "You're stronger than most, dear."

Quietly, Sara chuckled. "Except when it comes to your mother."

"I thought you two were best buddies now—the plant, plans for dinner."

Sara laughed as she took his hand and kissed it. "Yes, we are—maybe not yet but becoming friends." Holding his hand against her cheek, she said, "We are bonding over plants and flowers—and she assumes she's going to be a grandmother."

Hearing his laugh, she thought about how happy they had been for the past week. Each morning, she had woken and each night before going to sleep, she had suppressed all thoughts of her inability to conceive. With a little practice, it was simple. She'd done this before with past events by turning her thoughts to the present.

As her husband's arm came around her shoulders, as the morning sun lingered on her face, and the light seemed to soften everything around them, it was easy to be happy.

"Are you happy?"

His hand tightened on her shoulder as he answered. "Yes," he said, simply. Then added, "You like it out here." Not a question, a statement.

"I do—makes me think of what matters—my little concerns seem trivial when compared to all of this." When she turned to her husband, she was convinced she saw contentment in his face. They were living the secret life of repeated failed fertility. She never spoke of it to anyone—and the two of them rarely spoke to each other about the possibility of total failure. She shoved her thoughts away and returned to the present, to the warmth of the sun and the embrace of her husband.

As the sun warmed their faces, Sara snuggled against Grissom's chest. It was so quiet she could hear the steady beating of his heart. She had kept his hand in hers and she slowly traced each finger.

After a long silence, she said, "What if—what happens if it's only the two of us?"

She could have sworn the steady rhythm of his heart skipped a beat with her words; he shifted slightly moving his hand to her hair. He said, "We'll be fine, Sara. It's up to you what we do next." He sighed. "Once, I never thought I'd marry—I never gave much thought to children." His fingers threaded through her hair. "If you want to stop—I understand."

"No—no," Sara shook her head. "I want to try again."

She felt his lips against her hair as he said, "I'd like that—we thought this would be simple—easy."

Sighing, she said, "We were always so careful."

She felt the chuckle in his chest as he said, "Remember the morning Greg stopped at the condo? One minute you were running around wearing your robe flashing me your bare bottom and the next second, you'd dived into the bedroom." He laughed. "I think Greg figured out I had a visitor—and, at some point, I think he figured out it was you!"

Sara poked an elbow into his ribs, laughing at the shared memory.

The silence that followed was one of love and understanding, resolution and promise. Much later, Sara would remember the day, the smell of the apple she ate, the cool touch of the desert breeze, the warmth of the sun as they sat on a rocky ledge on a perfect spring morning.

On the way to the car, they managed to meander along the trail, finding signs of life along the rocky path, around low-growing plants, and, to Grissom's amazement, several bees on wildflowers.

"That's a good sign," he said, kneeling, carefully parting flower petals to watch a bee.

Several days later, they met Betty Grissom for dinner at a small café near the college campus. Fresh flowers were on tables covered with a white cloths; an awning over the terrace provided shade. Grissom immediately order carafes of sparkling water and iced tea, negating the standard questions about drinks.

Sara shot him a grateful glance.

After receiving their food and eating quietly for several minutes, Betty placed her fork aside and got Grissom's attention. Sara watched as the two exchanged a conversation in sign language. Her ability to understand was improving but Betty and Grissom were rapidly signing and she lost the line of conversation but knew her name had been signed several times.

Finally, Grissom brought his hand to his palm to halt the conversation. To Sara, he said, "She is complimenting the food." He paused, looked at Sara and said, "She says you need to eat more protein to be healthy."

Taking a deep breath, Sara managed to smile; at the same time, she felt her husband's hand on her thigh giving her a supportive touch.

To Betty, she nodded, placed her fork on the plate and signed "eggs" and then rotated her hands together for "cheese".

There was another rapid exchange between Grissom and his mother before Betty picked up her fork and continued eating. Grissom lowered his face, leaned over and kissed Sara.

He whispered, "She is expecting an announcement about a grandchild any day—does she know?"

When his mouth touched hers, Sara whispered, "No—I haven't told her."

They lingered over dinner for almost two hours, content and eating more than usual. Afterwards, they drove to The Strip and walked with a jostling crowd of tourists.

Sara realized she was enjoying the walk, seeing the awe in Betty's eyes as they walked over the street, all the blazing lights on fake, painted facades of grandeur lining the streets. She had forgotten how overwhelming the sight of glittering casinos, the crush of people, the constant hum of traffic could be.

Grissom moved between the two women and wrapped his arms around his mother and his wife. After a moment, he said "Look up." His hand on his mother's shoulder moved to touch the older woman's chin and he pointed up.

Above the line of the city, above the brightest colors of the strip, the night sky was miraculously dark, and against it, a crescent moon was set, directly over their heads; the thinnest, most brilliant sliver of silver in a black velvet sky.

_A/N: Thank you for reading! Now-take a minute to leave us a message! Keep GSR alive in fanfiction!_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: New Chapter! Moving forward...thank you for reading and take a minute to send us a comment!**_

**Lying Alone**

**Chapter 5 **

The air over the harbor town was hazy brown and an environmental match to the waters, probably the most polluted place in Japan. This rocky spit on the west side of the big island was an example to the civilized world for homegrown pollution.

Known by environmentalists and animal organizations as the bull's eye for the months' long dolphin slaughter, the stink of blood seemed to fill one's nostrils. Sea Shepard and Greenpeace groups had tried for years—succeeding recently with a documentary that had exposed the work of locals in herding dolphins into coves for mass killing. But the massacre continued.

Dusk was approaching when an old fishing boat chugged passed a dozen local vessels, adding more diesel fumes to the air along with a long trail of black smoke. A Japanese coast guard patrol boat did not give the old clunker a second glance. None of the workers on the other boats paid much attention to the decrepit craft as it puttered back and forth before anchoring in the most undesirable spot in the harbor.

As night fell, no one noticed the increased activity on the dilapidated boat. The frail looking man who had piloted the boat to its anchor spot no longer looked quite as old or frail as he had at dusk. Two other men appeared wearing black, almost invisible in the low-lights, and began to assemble an odd trio of oblong cylinders.

The old boat wasn't as it appeared; a few days before, the boat had been a small tender vessel for a research ship. It had been remade into an image of a rusty, paint-peeling Japanese fishing boat by a technique used to wrap cars and buses with advertising. It had state-of-the-art thrusters to keep it stationary, several false walls, and an open moon pool on its deck that was usually used by divers. The three men on the boat knew this trip was a one-time-opportunity to have an effect on wrong-doing—or what they considered to be a crime to the ocean's wildlife.

After the cylinders disappeared in murky waters, one of the men clicked through several screens on a small computer and fifty feet below the boat the cylinders moved underwater. The timers had already been activated; the cylinders were cut from a long line and settled in the murky bottom.

An hour later, the faded-worn out fishing boat had pulled up its anchor and quietly motored out of the harbor; the quiet noise of its engine barely noticed by other boats. Ninety minutes passed before an explosive rumble emanated from beneath the harbor. The muffled clap was heard on the surface and thought to be far-away thunder until the docks began to quiver and splinter. Within seconds, another blast broke apart the man-made breakwater that sheltered the harbor; stones flew twenty feet into the air as the rocky structure exploded in two places.

There was no loss of life, but damage in the narrow harbor was massive. Nothing was left of moorings; the destroyed breakwater had filled in the harbor's entrance. Several of the boats had substantial damage from falling rocks. And the one fuel dock had sunk into the filthy water.

The small dark fishing boat had not waited around to survey the damage; instead it was cruising at top speed directly east and taking on a new appearance as two men worked to peel away the fake façade of a Japanese fishing boat. Before dawn, the boat looked like its original purpose—a small exploratory work boat that was usually towed behind a larger research ship.

In the flurry of confusion following the explosions, no one remembered the old fishing boat, but in its wake, the old boat's mission had accomplished what had seemed impossible; the three men had single-handedly devastated the fleet of boats involved in the yearly dolphin slaughter.

…Gil Grissom could hear the steady throb of the engines from his closed cabin and, beyond, the heavy rush of the ocean as the large ship plowed its way to a destination in the middle of the Pacific Ocean to study a growing area of trash and garbage.

"We must be crazy," said a muffled voice; the head of its owner was buried face-down in a pillow on the floor. Jeff Bone, the man who had taken Grissom on his first eco-sabotage experience in the middle of Siberia lay on the floor of the cabin in a state of near intoxication.

Grissom passed a bottle of whisky to the man who had shared the recent trip with him. He had to stretch his arm to find the plastic cup. He said, "Of course, we are mad—and lie—and do unlawful things. All obsessions are dangerous and this one is a bit out of control." He chuckled as he pushed his pillow around and finished his whisky. The contents of the bottle had loosened his tongue and his thoughts.

"We won't be going back to Japan anytime soon if we are smart. I've lied to my wife—lied to my mother before she died. Probably lost everything I've ever had or cared about—but for the moment, I feel good."

Bare feet appeared, floating in Grissom's sight line for a minute before Bone sat up. The bottle was empty, as was the plastic cup. Gaining his knees and then his feet, the man staggered a few seconds before gaining his balance. He said, "It's tough—of course, my wife left me years ago. I think we were married for—for fourteen years. Kids are teenagers—nearly grown." Digging around in a locker, he came away with another bottle. "Fill it up?"

Grissom nodded and held out his cup.

The destruction of the harbor in Japan had been their fourth use of explosives in Asia. Most of the time, they managed to punch a hole in a boat or cripple engines or cut mooring lines, causing enough damage and mayhem to wreck plans of illegal fishing or destroying fragile marine ecosystems. Five men in a loosely formed group, well disguised as oceanographic researchers embedded in legitimate organizations, had managed to do things the well-funded groups could not do.

Jeff returned to his place on the floor, plumped the pillow against the lockers, and sat down, resting elbows on his knees. After filling both cups with whisky, he leaned back, saying, "I see my kids once a year. I know it's hard on their mother—but I've tried to keep them isolated from this." He shrugged, adding, "If I get caught, they'd find out from a family friend. But I'm thinking about moving to the west coast—see the kids more often, be a little more involved with them. We could do that—you and I—work together." He waved his arm in the air. "There's enough activity to keep both of us busy for years."

Grissom took a gulp of the strong liquor. "West coast could work. My mother has—had a small place. I've got a bunch of stuff stored there now."

"We could get a boat. My kids would like that—day trip out to Catalina a few times a year."

Swirling the liquor in his cup, Grissom said, "I—we never had kids—we wanted—tried with appointments and IVF but then after several years, testing showed it was my fault. I—I couldn't look her in the eyes—after all the doctor visits, the injections, the pain, disappointment, failures—it wasn't her. It was me! She'd done everything right—healthy, beautiful woman and—and I let her down."

Jeff took a long swallow before saying, "This is Sara—the one who sent you the book when we were in Siberia? Did she find someone else?"

Grissom shook his head. "Last year, I told her to find someone else—move on with her life—she—she deserves more." He made a hollow chuckle. "After all the time we were together, I divorced her with a phone call and sent papers from Portland. Then went to Antarctica for six months."

"Shit." Jeff muttered, raising his cup toward Grissom. "And I thought I was a nasty one for divorcing the mother of my three kids! Man—you win the price for that phone call."

"She's beautiful, sweet, everything a man could dream of—I hoped we'd have three children—it—it should have been so easy."

Jeff emptied his cup, filled it again, and leaned over to replenish the cup in Grissom's hand. He said, "Life has a way of fucking up our plans."

At some point, Bone left Grissom, heading to his own cabin. In the quiet, the engine throbbed and lulled him into an alcohol-sedated sleep. Lying alone in the narrow bed, his dreams were confused, searching for someone, something that kept flying away when he struggled to consciousness. Finally, he sunk into a heavy depth of sleep where no sound or light penetrated.

…When the sun crawled up the southeast horizon, the precarious state of the catamaran in the Winslow Harbor became clearly apparent in the dawn's light. What was left of the port hull and most of the main deck was underwater; the starboard hull was a blackened shell. The fire had been furious, raging through the sails and teak deck and railings in a few minutes.

Gil Grissom stood with other gawkers watching the salvage crew work under the watchful eyes of several local policemen. Silently, he rocked back on his heels and pinched his lips together to prevent a smile. A couple of the men had just pulled a long metal container from the wreckage—and Grissom knew what was inside.

When the box hit the metal gangplank, one of the policemen nudged it open with his foot, said something to the men standing near him. Grissom could imagine what was said as the other policemen suddenly went into motion. Inside the box, as he knew they would find, were assault weapons which would shortly be matched to the weapons used to kill dozens of sea lions.

The owners of the catamaran would be charged thousands of dollars, fined for their actions, and, with the right judge, might end up in prison for a time.

He had already sent enough information to local law enforcement officials to tie the boat's owners up for years to come.

Grissom turned, smiled and headed toward the ferry to the mainland. His third involvement in sabotage incidents with local environment issues meant he needed to leave. As in leave the area.

Three days later, he was dropping a hook into calm water off the coast of Oregon watching an orange colored sea bass swimming toward his line. The fish was lazy, slowly giving the sinker a prod, circling once before grabbing the bait.

"Dinner!" He said out loud—to himself as he pulled the sea bass in, wary of its spines as he dropped it onto a tray.

In less than thirty minutes, he had grilled the bass, cut off a section of cabbage, sliced an apple, and had, what he considered, a gourmet meal.

As he ate, he did not think about his future. He would probably panic if he allowed himself to think. The pearly light of dusk on the ocean made it possible to leave thinking in suspended stillness. But, for a few seconds, he remembered—walking out on his wife, walking away from research, walking away from an ordered, anticipated life. He pushed his thoughts away and cleaned the grill and utensils he'd used to cook and eat.

Afterwards, he hooked a ladder over the boat's rail, looped a safety line over his belt, and dropped into the cool Pacific Ocean for a very quick-three minute swim. It saved water, he reasoned, as he climbed out and shivered as the air blew across his wet clothes.

His cell phone chirped twice as he was toweling dry; only a few people knew where he was in a general sense of direction. And two of those knew he was keeping a low profile after leaving Seattle. Another beep from the phone meant a waiting message. He finished drying, hung the towel over a railing and picked up the phone.

The number he knew from many previous calls; his one regular contact with his former life, with Vegas. He picked up the phone and listened to the message before pulling a folding chair from a storage bench and setting it up on the deck. Then he removed his wet shirt and hung it next to the towel before putting on his windbreaker. He grabbed a bottle of beer before sitting, knowing when he returned the call he would be on the phone for a while.

He'd never considered a major in psychology but he did know how to listen—he'd had years of experience—which is what he had been doing for nearly three months with Heather Kessler. It was the same story each time of her daughter and her granddaughter, of what-if and why, questions that had no answers. But he listened to her heart break with each conversation.

He would never tell Heather what he did. She thought he was studying whales, which was the story he'd use for several years. He had studied whales for a few months, following the huge mammals around Antarctica, before he had purchased the boat. Since then, he'd been on his own—except for the loosely organized group of activists along the coast—and they were rarely together.

The cell phone stayed in his hand for a moment as his thumb scrolled through the numbers he had kept for years. He had forgotten the last time that he'd talked to most of them—except for Heather.

He had considered Heather a knowledgeable acquaintance before an unexpectedly peculiar friendship had developed between them after her daughter had been murdered and he had reunited Heather with her ex-husband and brought together two grandparents who had one little girl to love.

And now, her grandchild had been killed by a hit and run driver.

He clicked to messages and pressed 'call back'. Immediately, he heard her voice.

_A/N: That woman's voice...more to come! Thank you for reading, for keeping GSR alive in fanfiction! _


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Thank you to everyone who continues to read...a few more chapters to go!**_

**Lying Alone**

**Chapter 6 **

New lab director, Sara Sidle, managed to leave her office in a manner appropriate to her position. Back straight, eyes ahead, informing the desk sergeant that she'd be out of the building for a few hours. She managed to drive the familiar route to her house, park the car and get inside the front door. She even held herself together until she walked into the house, through the living room, and into her bedroom.

There, in the room she had intimately shared with one man, she choked for breath. The bed. The king size bed was perfectly made, not a crease or fold in the bedspread, yet one side showed wear—the side where she slept—lying alone for so many nights. She stared at the bed for a moment before throwing her bag and her jacket on the bed and took several long strides to the bathroom. The knot in her chest, the unsettled feeling in her stomach had bloomed to one of churning nauseousness. Her mouth, which had been as dry as the Sahara Desert, suddenly filled with liquid; she knew she was going to throw-up.

A few minutes later, Sara leaned against the tiled wall and dried her face. She'd splashed water on her face and rinsed her mouth and for the first time in an hour felt like she could think. And all she could think about was this bathroom.

When she and Grissom had purchased the house, its condition was nearly original; a mid-century with one previous owner. They had updated and changed most of the rooms in the house, but Grissom wanted this bathroom to remain as it had been originally planned and built. So it had.

A long narrow room with pink and gray tiles halfway up the wall and fixtures that were a strong pink; not very masculine looking, Sara had thought. Today, she almost smiled remembering Betty Grissom's description—"It's mauve, dear!" It was the only time her mother-in-law had written a word because she did not know how to sign "mauve".

Sara's hand touched the wallpaper. They had searched for months to find the right wallpaper, a paisley print of octopods in pinks, magenta, cream, and gray mixed among watery splashes of pale blue, pink, and gray. Her finger traced the pattern of one of the creatures. The tears she had managed to hold back suddenly filled her eyes and with great gulping breaths, she began to cry.

She stumbled, fell forward, managed to reach the bed before crumpling into a heap. She cried for the lonely nights she had slept alone, for the tears she had shed for questions that she could never answer. There had been long days and nights in which she had allowed herself to imagine, to hope—hope, she had grown to hate the word.

It had been an insidious seed planted inside her soul, surviving on little tending. It was hope that prevented her from moving on—hope that kept her loving one man even after months passed and she heard nothing. She clung to hope as sailors to their wreck. Hope that he would return—hope for a phone call. Yet when he returned, it wasn't to her but for Heather Kessler—and to this woman—the thought of Heather caused her to sod and choke—Gil Grissom had been able to say he loved another. When Sara had heard his words, she'd stop breathing; she felt as if she'd swallowed ground glass. Envy—she said the word and felt like poison had pricked her mouth. With her head buried into the crook of her arm, she cried until the envy subsided into an acknowledgement of a situation she had no power to change. Gradually, her crying came to an end and she lay in a state of confusion as she tried to make an ordered sense of all that had transpired since the casino bombing.

Finally, Sara lifted her head, moved around in bed and leaned back against a pillow. She felt—she was exhausted. Turning her head, she checked the time on a clock sitting beside the bed; she'd been gone from the lab only two hours. Needing to return to work, she crawled out of bed, returned to the bathroom and scrubbed her face with cold water. Somewhere, she heard her phone chirp with a message.

Greg; it would be Greg. No longer the funky-haired lab geek, he was now the senior crime scene investigator in the lab. And her friend.

In the kitchen, she poured a glass of water, drank all of it, and listened to Greg's short message asking her to call him.

As she pressed 'call back', Sara knew she did not have any 'off' time as long as her team was in the field.

Immediately, Greg answered with "Are you okay?" A slight hesitation before he added, "Lindsey Willows—she—she told me."

Sara sighed, her heart sinking with his words. She knew the recorded statement of Heather Kessler would spread like wildfire and the last few minutes would be added entertainment and fodder for gossip.

"Sara?"

"Yeah, I—I needed a little time to myself—I'm okay."

"I know—I'm outside your house—with food. You want to let me in?"

Whispering, "Oh, Greg." Sighing again, she walked to the front door.

He had brought food from her favorite Asian café, including tea she had tried the last time they had eaten there.

Greg said, "I know you haven't eaten since who knows when." He spread food on the table and handed her one of the take-out boxes. "Noodles and veggies plus dumplings."

Sara, taking the box, sat on the sofa, saying, "Thanks, Greg. We've had an overwhelming three days, haven't we?"

For several long minutes, they ate in silence.

Greg asked, "Do you know where he is?" There was no need to identify who he meant.

Shaking her head, she leaned back, saying, "I don't know what to think, Greg."

But before she'd completed the sentence, the doorbell rang followed by quick rapping of fingernails. Greg shrugged, indicating he was unaware of who it could be.

So when Sara opened the door, she was surprised to find Catherine Willows.

Catherine held up her phone saying, "Lindsey called. I thought I'd check on you."

Sara held the door wide and waved with her free arm. She said, "Greg brought food."

In a behavior all too familiar, Catherine did not hesitate. "What are you going to do about Grissom?" She paused for eight seconds, taking in Greg, the food, and back to Sara. "Men! Can't live with them—can't live without them." She turned back to Greg and quickly stepped across the room, picking up one of the boxes of food and taking chop sticks from Greg's hand. Pointing the sticks toward Greg, she said, "And I bet you've not said one word to Morgan—poor girl is waiting for you to do something—anything!" The chop sticks waved again; this time toward Sara.

"And Grissom—good grief—how clueless can one man be? I'd like to strangle him but he'd probably enjoy it!" Catherine paced the room as she talked. "He was always oblivious about personal stuff but I really thought you," she pointed at Sara, "I really thought you had gotten him out of his cocoon." She shrugged as she continued speaking. "He is so—so clueless—the perfect word for most men but he's really doubled down on the meaning." She had reached a small table with a framed photograph on it and looked at the photo of Sara and Grissom.

Taking another quick breath, she turned on her heel to face Sara and Greg, and continued her rant: "And then for him to return to help Lady Heather—I have never understood whatever is between those two—and then he disappeared! But not before he tells her! Tells Heather—I just do not understand—that he loves you! I'm ready to break his neck—if I could get my hands on the man!

"You know—this is so much like him! He'd disappear for hours sometimes and then return with the answers. If you asked me—which you haven't, I'd tell you to go find him." She paused again, quickly glancing around the room, before she continued, her voice softer, "I never had a second chance with." She hesitated for a few seconds, "we were crazy about each other—Warrick and I—we really never had a first opportunity—but I wish I'd—well, we didn't but we wanted to and I'll never know what might have been."

The outburst stopped as quickly as it had begun; Catherine let out a loud puff of air, looked at the two who were staring at her, and sat down in one of the chairs. Expertly using the chop sticks, she took a bite of noodles.

A few moments later, she said, "Good Chinese, Greg."

Her words seemed to break a spell Greg and Sara were under.

Greg said, "Good food."

Sara reached for a dumpling, put it in her mouth, and slowly chewed for a long time before swallowing. Finally, she said, "I'm going to find him."

_**A/N: Again, thanks for reading-we appreciate all comments! Long live GSR! **_


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Thank you to all who are reading and a special thanks to those who review! Enjoy!**_

**Lying Alone**

**Chapter 7 **

The Embraer regional jet banked low over the Pacific Ocean making another turn taking it east and then west over the city as it lined up with the runway of the San Diego airport. Under a cloudless dawn sky, Sara Sidle, in her window seat, could appreciate the beauty of lights spreading for miles to the north and the east with an abrupt end where the ocean met land. She could see the steady lights of ocean going ships waiting to enter the maritime docks as soon as the sun was up.

As Sara stared down at the quickly approaching illuminated tarmac, she wondered whether chasing to San Diego was a good idea. Her former husband had a chance to approach her and he had not done so; he'd simply disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

As the tires screeched onto the runway, Sara thought about the tremendous support she had gotten from everyone—even Ecklie had agreed to her request for an indefinite leave. Catherine had called Nick Stokes who, in less than an hour, had found that Grissom had signed a release for his boat earlier in the day at the shore patrol headquarters; he had also provided Sara with an exact address and docking location. The boat was still docked. And, good friend he was, Nick had offered any assistance she needed; she'd promised to be in touch.

Greg—bless him, she thought—had taken charge of her house, her garden, and as her stand-in supervisor for a few days.

Best of all, none of them thought she was crazy.

She had her shoulder bag and one small roll-aboard case with clothes and toiletries. On the way to the airport, Greg had given her a roll of bills, saying "You never know when you might need cash."

The ride in the yellow cab was a blur; she had no idea how far the airport was from the dock. No idea if it had taken fifteen minutes or an hour, but she seemed to have missed the sun rise. When the taxi stopped and she stepped out of the car, the sun was pure white light, the water unable to absorb the intense brightness.

She asked if she could leave her suitcase in the taxi until she was sure she would stay—the driver's fingers taped the meter and he mumbled an agreeable sound. Handing him a couple of bills from the roll of cash, he put the car into 'park' as his voice brightened with a response of "Sure, lady!"

Sara said, "Fifteen minutes, I'll be back," and she opened the car door.

It had been much longer than fifteen minutes when she discovered her suitcase was sitting on the dock. She was fairly certain she and the man she loved had remained in a tight embrace for ten minutes—maybe it was fifteen minutes—or thirty minutes. Time has ceased to exist for some time.

The faint woody scent of his soap flooded her nose; the feel of his hair between her fingers, the prickly stubble of his beard on her cheek, his hands pressed against her back became a torrent of memories and suddenly, Sara knew she was where she belonged.

She would stay. And, finally, when he had found words, Grissom had said, "I've missed you every day."

Then there had been more whispered words of thoughts and feelings, faltering and uncertain, gradually becoming definite and eloquent, and he had wiped a tear track from her cheek, confirming what she had known from the moment he had taken her hand and helped her onto his boat. She was home.

It was later when she confronted him about his words to Heather Kessler. After giving her a tour of the boat, Grissom had placed a chair, a box and a small table on the boat's deck and provided cheese and bread, apples and grapes to eat. He sat on the box as he sliced cheese, indicating she was to take the chair. Sara could not remember the last time she'd eaten and in minutes she felt a surge of inner strength.

"Is this what you eat when you're out on the ocean?"

Grissom smiled, saying, "I add an occasional fish and ramen noodles to the plate." He picked a grape and tossed it into his mouth, chewed it before adding, "I'm not out many days in a row—four to six days—and I'm never far from the coast."

With a forced quietness in her voice that belied her nervousness, Sara, almost playfully, said, "We—we haven't talked in a long time—not—not in a long while." She paused, silently boosting her courage. "Why—why talk to Heather? About us?"

His eyes found hers and she held his gaze, willing for him to say the words to her.

Dropping his eyes, he said, "I'm a fool, Sara. A fool—please, forgive me for—for—I've loved you since the first time my eyes found you. So many years ago…" His hand reached for hers and, almost unconsciously, she took it. "Every day I've regretted leaving you. Every night, I've thought about—about us."

Pausing, wrapping his fingers with hers, he sighed before continuing, "When I got caught for trespassing, I thought I'd sit in a holding cell for a day and then they'd let me go. When Ecklie called—it—it wasn't Heather—she was an excuse—I went to Vegas see—I wanted to see you." He gave an imperceptible chuckle as he leaned to her and enclosed her hands in his. "You—seeing you again made me speechless. I—I saw this beautiful, confident woman standing in front of me—I—I was lost for words."

"Heather?" Sara asked, determined to hear his explanation.

He did not pull away as she expected but kept her hands between his. He said, "Heather…" He took a deep breath. "Heather makes a good therapist—even before she was professionally trained—she was a good listener—neutral about everything—and—and never responded with emotion. She has a poker face—no matter what she hears, she never shows emotion—never."

Sighing, he dropped his head for a full minute. Sara remained quiet.

He said, "Years ago, I realized Heather had no friends—she did not know how to be a friend or how to love anyone, even her daughter—she wanted control. I did not want to be that kind of person—lonely, without friends, never having loved anyone.

"When I located her granddaughter, she felt she owed me—something. I'd hear from her every six months with an update on the little girl—Allison. She got satisfaction—self-respect—from the normal life she was providing for her granddaughter." He removed one hand and wiped it across his face. "She stepped into the street in front of a car—died instantly. I didn't know until Heather called and I thought it was one of her regular updates on Allison but it was to tell me what had happened. There was nothing I could do except to listen—as she had listened when I thought I'd lost you.

"I was never her lover. I was never her client or her patient—probably the only person she considered a friend. And it was true—what I said—I had a shell around my heart—my life. When I got to know Heather, I knew I did not want to live like that."

His hand came back to hers. He said, "You are the one woman I'll always love. I—I…" He seemed to search for words. "I left you because of my own self-centered arrogance—stupidity. It was my inexcusable behavior—I was ashamed—humiliated—to—afraid of what might happen to us. You are a young woman—a beautiful, desirable woman—after all you had done, after all those injections and appointments. Never complaining—and I—I couldn't…"

He turned away; a slight shake of his head as if he could say no more.

Sara had managed to hold still, processing what he had said, what it meant. Moving with infinite clarity, she closed the space between them; her heart beat seem to drive the air from her lungs as she stood and stepped around the small table. He rose to meet her.

One of his hands settled between her tense shoulder blades, touching her with gentle care, bringing her body against his.

His low voice was at her ear. He murmured, "I've always loved you." His head dropped to her shoulder and she knew his breath was not quite steady. He was silent for a few seconds before he brought his mouth to hers.

His hands moved to cradle her head and he kissed her with an impatient simplicity. With familiar and remembered moves, their bodies instinctively aligned and Sara felt an ache between her thighs that had almost been forgotten.

As the kiss continued, holding her tightly, his mouth seemed to devour hers with a sensuality that caused her to lose her breath.

When Grissom released her, he said, "Stay—I want you here—we can…"

She cut his words off by placing her mouth over his; her tongue touched his teeth, the dampness of the inside of his lips. She muttered against his lips, "I'm here to stay—I will always love you—I want—all of you." A slight giggle escaped her lips as she whispered, "Dear Gil, can't we get to your bed."

Suddenly, his kissing ended, tearing his mouth away, breathing raggedly. He said, "The bed—yes—the bed." His hand raked through the white curls on his head. For a moment he appeared to be confused as a blush came to his face and then he laughed. "The bed—I sleep in a sleeping bag—I have no sheets. It's—it isn't what I have imagined."

Sara stepped several inches away from him, keeping her hand on his face. She bit her bottom lip before she smiled. "So you've imagined us…" Her finger wagged back and forth several times. Her smile burst into a full-face-changing laugh. She said, "I think we can manage with a sleeping bag!"

She was first into the cabin and seemed to slide down the ladder to the sleeping berth.

…For the first time in what felt like decades devoid of laughter, Gil Grissom was laughing. He had been stunned to look up to find the woman he loved walking toward him. That she agreed to stay had caused a lifting of darkness that had dwelled in his mind for months. She loved him—she had never stopped loving him. He could laugh again—they both laughed.

She giggled as she flipped his sleeping bag across the mattress. She lovingly fussed over a bruise on his shoulder as she pulled the clothes from his body. The chortling chuckle she made as she stripped her clothes off nearly drove him mad—in a good way.

Nuzzling the soft curve of her neck, he remembered the way she responded to him, feasting on him with a passion that equaled his own. Her limbs wrapped around him, her hands roaming impatiently over his back. And he was aroused with an intensity that he could not remember; every cell in his body pervaded with heat. He had to feel, kiss, caress, taste every inch of her; he had to get inside of her.

He could not kiss her deeply enough—needing more. More of her skin, her smell, her pulse under his tongue. He needed the flex and arch of her body under his, the shudder of her climax as she clenched around him…fast, slow, in infinite ways.

The weight of his sex brushed against the inside of her leg; the touch against the springy curls caused his to gasp. He would go slow, gently teasing her into a passionate fever.

When his tongue touched her nipple, she pushed up to meet him, groaning with pleasure. He slid lower, tasting, nipping until his hands pushed her thighs wide and placed his tongue into the warm dampness of her curls. He felt the arch of her hips against his mouth as the tip of his tongue circled and sucked on the tiny peak of her sex.

Memories flooded his brain of all the times he had made love to her; of her response to his touch. His name...he heard his name being whispered again and again as if his name were an erotic incantation as his tongue worked rhythmically, probing, sucking, entering her until a tide of ecstasy swept over her body, causing her breath to come hard and fast.

In the midst of her rising passion, she tugged, pulled, saying, "Now, now—I want you." Reaching down, her warm hand circled his erection and guided him between her thighs.

"Sara."

"Now. Inside me. Now."

With a sudden thrust, as she rocked upward, he was inside her.

Gasping at the sensation, his flesh throbbed yet he managed to hold still for a long moment. Long enough that she opened her eyes, tender, dark, loving eyes held his.

With an indiscernible agreement, he began slow stroking movements which lasted for a minute before he was caught in the same erotic tide of ecstasy that brought the woman he loved to climax. He knew she clenched around him in throbbing contractions, milking a climax from him until her name came as a hoarse whisper on his breath.

Afterwards, the afternoon sun changing the light and shadows in the berth, Grissom said, "Will you marry me?"

Her response was a giggle.

"I'm serious, dear. I want you with me always—every minute of the day. I've realized that I can never live without you—I find happiness in being with you."

Sara snuggled against him wrapped in a thread-bare towel he had pulled from a cabinet. "I'll stay." She giggled again, saying, "Yes, I'll marry you, Gilbert Grissom. I'll follow you to the ends of the earth—and beyond."

Grissom breathed a sigh as relief flooded his body. "Wait until you see the sunset over the ocean…" He didn't finish because her mouth covered his.

_**A/N: Thank you...enjoy the upcoming holiday! Probably one or two more chapters to this story! **_


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Thank you for reading...as we bring this one to an end, we know there are stories and adventures waiting for Sara and Grissom! **_

**Lying Alone**

**Chapter 8 **

Saying goodbye is always difficult. Saying goodbye on a beautiful day was painful. Knowing this day was coming for weeks, Gil Grissom was baffled by his unusual emotional reaction, an attachment he had not anticipated.

He felt an undeniable disloyalty to this parting; his life had changed. He knew certain adventures were over; he knew his memories would fade but some would remain vivid in his mind until his last breath.

The sun had come up without a cloud or drift of smog to ease its rise, just a line of bright light before bursting full over the horizon. There had been nothing left that he had claimed this morning as he had lifted the fender one last time and thrown it across the rail onto the boat's deck.

The _Ishmael_ would take on a new name with its new owners, he thought, as he managed to raise a hand in farewell. A part of his life's experiences was sailing away with an early morning tide as the couple on the fly deck seemed at ease with the handling of the sturdy and hard-working boat, its diesel engine throbbing with a satisfying hum. And they were like-minded crusaders with plans to sail from Alaska to Chile doing environmental work.

Remaining where he was, he watched until the boat cleared the harbor and turned south towards its new home. The morning sun warmed his shoulders as he turned and walked toward another boat. The twenty-seven foot Boston Whaler would never take the seas as the _Ishmael_ had but he would not be doing the same work as he'd done in the past.

He grinned as he approached the slick and nearly-new boat.

The reasons for the sale of his old boat were already aboard. Laughing, shaking his head at his good life, he jumped from the dock onto the boat and reached for a bright green life jacket that obscured all but legs and a curly dark head of hair. As he lifted the laughing little boy into his arms, his legs were assaulted by another colorful bubble of blue which he managed to heft up into his left arm.

Between excited chatter from the two little boys, Sara leaned over and kissed his lips. She said, "I know it's a sad day for you."

With a smile on his face, he said, "Not sad…remembering adventures." He nuzzled one child and then the other. "And now we are making more adventures!"

Laughing with him, Sara took one of the boys and pointed to his life jacket. "Ship ahoy, Captain Gilbert! Let's see if we can find treasure today."

She felt a warm glow not caused by the sun. Her husband was holding one of their children as he made the sounds of a pirate and slipped on the life jacket. The giggling peals of both boys delighted her as no other sound had ever done.

It took several minutes to get the children settled before Grissom turned the key that set the twin motors churning. Leaving the harbor, the little boys waved at everyone on the dock and other boats; most people waved and smiled at the happiness of children on a simple boat trip.

"Pirate treasure ahead!" Grissom shouted as the boys cheered and laughed.

The words drifted to Sara's ears on the breeze created by the boat's forward motion. She knew her husband had a pocket filled with marbles.

…_Three years later_

The tropical sun climbed slowly over the edge of the earth, over the hills of lava and low-growing greenery until it bathed the anchored barge in rays of golden light. Four people were already at work on the barge preparing for a day's work along the shoreline. Lava rocks spread across the azure water, appearing as jagged stepping stones to a white sand beach. Looking closely, one could see the slight movement of small marine animals concealed in crevices of the black rocks.

Dressed in shorts, a faded floral shirt, and a pair of water sandals, Gil Grissom was bent over a makeshift table using small computer. Turning to the three others, he said, "Fifty-six yesterday!"

The number referred to the marine iguanas measured and tagged the day before.

The group continued their work as the sunlight grew stronger and the animals they were studying began moving across the black rocks, jumping into the water and swimming with surprising agility toward the warm beach.

Grissom lifted his head, his eyes on the beach. A steep bank backed the beach where low growing bushes and small trees met the sand. A public path meandered for more than a mile to the small town where they lived. The group had used a small boat to circle the island and arrive at the barge before the sun was up but a few people used the trail to enjoy the isolated beach.

At the moment, he had heard a sound carried on the breeze, a noise that was not a splash, not coming from behind him on the barge. Concentrating on distance with his eyes away from the sun, he saw them coming along the path.

The three children would have been difficult to identify except he knew them, completely, thoroughly. He knew all three had dark, wavy hair; two had blue eyes, and reminded him of his own childhood photographs. His sons—the boys were strong, vigorous kids who shouted and pushed each other, and laughed at life.

The smaller one, his daughter, their miracle child, was a replica of her mother with her dark eyes and slim build. She was waving something in her hand as the three ran ahead of their mother. He saw bright faces full of humor, saw their bodies as sturdy, healthy, and strong and his chest literally swelled with pride.

He saw the boys hit the sand first, running and shouting toward the water. His daughter hung back, waited until her mother caught up and took her hand. In her hand was a wilted flower.

His wife—he stood as she reached the beach—stretched her arm and waved at him. Wearing shorts and a blue shirt with a wide-brim white hat covering her head, she was the essence of beauty with her casual, unconcerned appearance as the sun seemed to light a radiance on her face.

Little Lizabeth had been their last attempt when Sara, at age 46, had decided to have their last embryo transplanted. They had no hope of success even after a positive pregnancy test but as days passed, as months passed, they began to smile and laugh and plan for their baby girl.

Brothers John and Will would not remember a time before their sister was born; it was as if their memories began on the day Lizabeth was presented to them.

Suddenly, he remembered a dream—a dream of three deliriously happy children running toward him. The dream had been so vivid that he had known they were his children.

He stepped away from the desk, shouted to the others on the barge that he would return soon, and plunged into the sparkling water. With a few strokes, he was touching the sandy ocean floor and by the time he waded to shallow water, the three children were dancing in the low rolling waves ready to greet him.

At age five, the boys had dozens of questions, their voices over-running each other in excitement that occurred every morning. Lizabeth hung back with her mother, waiting for her time, waiting for her brothers to run into the water, to forget their questions, before she approached with arms outstretched, her wilted flower a gift.

He lifted the little girl into his arms thinking of her as his reward for being a father when most men were grandparents. She was bright, happy, a joy to be around, and showed her love of her parents and brothers in ways that continued to surprise him.

Hugging his daughter to his chest, he leaned to his wife and kissed her. She was his deepest love, mother of his children, and a flood of emotions filled him as he thought for a few seconds on what life would be like without her.

_**A/N: Keep GSR alive in fanfiction! Read the stories...review to encourage authors! We love all of you...**_

_The End_


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